Links in the Chain
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: A birthday fic for the amazing evitamockingbird, starring our favorite butler and housekeeper. Period-set; kind of a prequel? Maybe?
1. A Butler Turns Fifty

**Updated A/N: This started as a one-shot fic for the lovely evitamockingbird on the event of her 2016 birthday. Well ... it's now her 2017 birthday, so it's being continued. (P.S. Charlie's birth date is a bit off - I'm usually a real stickler for those dates and details - but it's fiction, so hopefully you'll all forgive me this once** **.) x**

 _ **September, 1906**_

Mr. Carson rose early that morning, as was his habit. He gathered his things and headed into the bathroom, and he could hear the maids and hall boys just beginning to scurry about as he was lathering his face. Looking in the mirror over the sink and drawing the pristine blade across his cheek, he took a moment to examine his features.

 _Regal,_ Alice had once told him.

 _Hardly,_ he thought.

He'd always been rather ashamed of his size - a head taller than all the other boys, his nose a bit too large for his face during that time when boys are growing all out of balance, his expressive eyebrows, his broad shoulders. Once his voice changed, however, he learned how to utilize all of that to appear in command; coupled with the now-booming voice, he supposed his physical appearance and presence had always served him well in his chosen profession.

He rinsed the blade and finished up before heading back to his room.

 _Not bad, old chap,_ he mused as he combed and styled his locks _. Some more grey hairs, but dignified … dignified, yes._

As he donned his jacket, he gave one more look in the mirror, declaring himself ready to face the day.

 _Almost,_ he added, with a wistful glance at the object still residing atop his desk. _But nothing to be done about that now._

He exited his room and closed the door behind himself before making his way down for the staff breakfast.

 _At least none of them know,_ he thought, smiling as he entered the servants' hall, the scraping of chairs and murmured _"Good morning, Mr. Carson"_ the only acknowledgement he received on the morning of the day when he turned fifty years old.

He was a rather private man at heart, and it certainly wouldn't do to have the staff paying him attention with cakes and crackers and singing and - _Heaven forbid_ \- gifts.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Mrs. Hughes took her seat, side-eyeing the butler as he sipped at the tea she'd prepared for him. She'd glanced at him long enough on his way into the room to realize he'd not yet found his gift, for which she was grateful.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she'd greeted him cheerfully, and she'd been pleased to see him smile and return the sentiment in his usual, solemn tone - all propriety and style and grace, even in that.

 _He'll discover it soon enough,_ she thought as she bit down on her toast. One of the maids giggled at something Thomas said, and Mrs. Hughes shot a warning glance down the table, gift forgotten for the time being.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. Carson sat down rather abruptly in his chair, flabbergasted. In his hand, he held an opened box.

He'd spied it upon his desk immediately upon entering his pantry, of course, something out of place in his domain. Having decided not to raise a booming enquiry out into the hall, he'd merely closed his door and picked the box up off of his desktop, removed its simple bow and unpatterned wrapping paper, and carefully lifted the lid.

The contents of the box had shifted a bit when he'd unceremoniously plopped down. He reached in and removed a thin-but-sturdy chain for his pocket watch, a new chain that would replace the one that had broken only last week, much to his consternation.

He expected the gentle knock on the door, but he also expected the door to then swing open, which it did _not._

"Come in, Mrs. Hughes," he called, and even in his annoyance at the gift, he smirked at her timid expression when she entered the room - noting with a shake of his head that she closed the door behind herself again. She usually left it open, and so she must be expecting a dressing down.

"This," he said to her, raising the chain up and dangling it between his fingers, "deserves an explanation."

She stood before his desk, chin raised somewhat defiantly. "I've no idea what you mean, Mr. Carson."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, I very much doubt that, Mrs. Hughes. Please," he added with a wave of his hand toward his chairs by the fire, "sit."

She pulled one over toward his desk and sat obediently, fully prepared for the deluge of words she was sure he'd be unleashing, words about privacy and rules and nosy housekeepers.

But she was rather taken aback when none of _those_ words came.

"How did you know?" he whispered instead as he laid the box aside and ran the chain between his fingers.

"I noticed it gone last week," she admitted. "At first, I thought you'd simply forgotten to wear it."

She laughed, and he looked up at her, meeting her eyes and seeing a hint of her caring within them.

"I should have known better," she went on. "You'd never forget to wear it; it's too precious to you."

"What makes you say that?"

" _You_ said that," she told him. "Quite a while back, now, perhaps. But you did."

He let his gaze drop from hers, his mind's eye traveling back over their myriad conversations since she'd become housekeeper … and even some from before that. He remembered them all, those blessed little moments of time that he managed to carve out for her in his life, moments when her grace and charm and beauty seemed to add a touch of loveliness to his otherwise very routine days and nights.

"Ohhh," he said, his voice rumbling as his eyes closed and he nodded slowly. "The Christmas when your mother was ill. I remember now." He looked up at her. "But I'm surprised _you_ did. That was a very rough time for you."

A flicker of sadness appeared in her eyes, seen by him before she managed to whisk it away. "It was," Mrs. Hughes acknowledged, worrying her lip a bit as she spoke. "And your support that night meant a great deal to me, Mr. Carson. More than you know, I think."

"Hm." He looked at the chain again, remembering how they'd shared stories that night over a glass of port - stories of her mother, far away in Argyll and dying, with only a neighbor there to provide care; stories of his father, long-since gone, a gentle and kind man from whom Mr. Carson had learned much, not the least of which was how to be a good, kind man himself despite his seemingly harsh demeanor.

"But how did you know it was today?" he asked, still a bit mystified. They'd spoken of many things that night, but the day Charles Carson had come into the world was not one of them.

She chuckled. "I maintain the staff records," she reminded him. "I've known when your birthday was ever since I became housekeeper."

"And you've said nothing," he marveled. "I thank you for that."

"Of course not. You're a private man, Mr. Carson. There's nothing wrong with that."

They sat quietly for a moment, the din in the corridor reminding them that there was work to be done, that they needed to get moving soon enough.

"It snapped when I was tucking the watch in," he said suddenly. "I've no idea how old it was, but I knew it couldn't be repaired. No replacement link would have matched, not now. It had been my intention to replace it on my next half day, but that seems to keep getting delayed with all we've had going on."

She smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt, and the light from the fire in his hearth made her dark brown hair seem aflame with auburn - something he noticed frequently but never commented on. "Well, now you won't have to. I wish you a very Happy Birthday, Mr. Carson. And have no fear - the date of your birthday is still a secret which will remain safe with me."

He caught her gaze again, and she winked at him.

 _Winked._

For the first time in many, many years, Mr. Carson - imposing Butler of Downton Abbey - felt his heart flutter.

He tilted his head in thanks, unable to verbally speak all the words in his heart about his gratitude and caring for the woman seated before him.

But Mrs. Hughes, ever the attentive housekeeper, heard them anyway.


	2. The Servants' Ball

**A/N: Well, this is a prequel to Chapter 1 ... which is a canon prequel ... you get the idea. We're going back in time.**

 **This was written with much love for evitamockingbird on the event of her birthday. A timely quote to start us off, and then we begin with a ball ... Mrs. Hughes's second-ever Servants' Ball, to be exact.**

 **Hop on over to tumblr and wish EM a very Happy Birthday!**

 **Much love, dearie. xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend."

 **OoOoOoO**

The house stood firm against the raging winds, barricading its inhabitants from the wet sleet and the overpowering darkness outside. The only light that could be seen for nearly a mile came from its windows, though the bottom set were steamy, as though giving those who stood behind them protection from prying eyes - symbolic, perhaps, of the feelings of the people inside … a desire to be shielded, protected, and unobserved.

Inside, the ball was in full swing. The awkward moments leading up to the event had, as always, been filled with rushed chores, last-minute twists of the hair, and the fastening of cuff links. But from the moment the first chords of music had sounded in the hall, from the second Lord and Lady Grantham and their heads of staff had made their way to the dance floor, all concerns were left by the wayside in order that everyone might enjoy a celebratory holiday.

Well, _almost_ all concerns.

 **OoOoOoO**

Mr. Carson stood tall as he led Lady Grantham around the dance floor. They were both accomplished dancers, and this was hardly their first go at this particular waltz. Lady Grantham appreciated her butler's ability to pull off this ceremonial start to the ball. It was part of Mr. Carson's almost regal presence, one small aspect of the multitude of things that were making the man the most respected butler in the area. And were anyone to ask her, she thought the only thing that might make it all more enjoyable would be if he would simply _speak_ to her more.

She'd resolved to fix that this year, and just this morning she had come up with the perfect topic of conversation, one about which they both likely had a good deal to say. The circumstances that had put her in mind of it hadn't been terribly pleasant, of course, but she wondered if she might effect a bit of change there as well.

"Carson?" she asked, focusing on his sharp features instead of the people staring at them as they danced.

"Yes, Milady?"

"How are you and Mrs. Hughes getting on? It's been a little over a year now that she's been Housekeeper."

"Getting on, Milady? I don't understand." His brow furrowed a bit, but he was quite careful not to show the anxiety he'd felt when she posed the question, his worry that the reason for it might be dissatisfaction on the part of the family toward a woman who he thought was doing a spectacular job compared to her predecessor.

"Oh, you know what I mean, Carson. You get along, yes? Working together day by day for the betterment of the staff and the household. It's been a marvelous improvement for _me_ working with her _._ If I do say so, I think it was my best decision in years!" she laughed, and Mr. Carson nodded his agreement. "You must spend a great deal of time together?"

"We do, Milady. Of course, we see one another at meals, and we meet weekly to discuss the matters of the household staff."

"But might you not even share more than that, Carson? Surely you've become something of … of _friends_ in the past year, have you not?" It was a completely loaded question, but if he became ruffled or upset, she'd simply do what her mother-in-law was wont to do: blame it on her American sensibilities.

He spun her around once more as he contemplated her question.

 _Friends …_

"Yes, I suppose Mrs. Hughes and I are, to some extent, friends."

Lady Grantham smiled. "Good. I always find that it's better to think kindly of those with whom you must spend every day."

"Indeed, Milady."

"And so you do?" she pressed.

"I'm sorry, Milady?"

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. "You _do_ think kindly of Mrs. Hughes, Carson?"

"She's an excellent worker, Milady."

The music ended, and Mr. Carson bowed to her, thus ending their conversation. But no matter; she had planted what she'd intended to sow: an idea, small but beautiful, that the man so well-regarded by both her and her husband might now have an equal in the household to whom he could speak.

And speak he _did_ \- and earlier than her Ladyship ever imagined.

 **OoOoOoO**

It was seeing Mrs. Hughes staring off into the distance that first gave him pause. Their obligatory dances accomplished, each had chosen to stand on the sidelines, as it were, supervising the younger staff and keeping abreast of the amount of punch that was being consumed. It was a party, after all, but they still were expected to work the next day.

He took his customary spot by the housekeeper's side, standing a little to her left - not too close, mind, but close enough to have a conversation if one needed to be had.

She didn't even seem to know he was there.

He took his pocketwatch out, clicked it open, and sighed.

 _Still at least an hour to go._

He clicked it shut again and tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket.

"It's not nearly that time, Mr. Carson," she said quietly - almost _sadly,_ he thought.

"No," he agreed, and he turned to look at her; she didn't move, and he examined her profile intently. "Are you all right, Mrs. Hughes?"

She didn't answer at first, didn't even appear to have heard him at all. He'd nearly given up by the time she spoke.

"No, Mr. Carson, but I'll manage."

She said nothing else, and he turned his attentions back to the dance floor, his eyes seeking out the new footman, Thomas, whom he was sure was going to be causing trouble before the night was over.

 **OoOoOoO**

Mrs. Hughes, on the other hand, wasn't paying one iota of attention to any of the other staff. She could barely focus, between the screaming, painful thoughts inside her head and the silent presence of the butler by her side. After what she guessed was a full five minutes, she turned to the punch bowl and obtained a glassful for herself. A second later, as she had the glass halfway to her lips, she put it down suddenly and poured one for _him_ as well.

"Mr. Carson?"

Her voice was soft, and it startled him. She held the glass out wordlessly, and he nodded his thanks upon taking it from her.

Her heart fluttered as his fingers accidentally brushed hers, and she looked away before she could manage to blush.

She drank her punch in silence, milling through a great deal in her mind as she did so.

 **OoOoOoO**

The rest of the ball went without a snag, and Mrs. Hughes heaved a great sigh of relief when she finally found herself in her sitting room - her blessedly quiet, cool sitting room - at just past one in the morning. She'd gone down to fetch the novel she was reading, and so she was therefore quite surprised when she heard Mr. Carson's footsteps coming down the corridor and stopping at her door.

"They've all gone up," he told her, popping his head inside the room. "How about you?"

His deep voice made her shiver, and not for the first time she wondered if he had any capacity whatsoever to regulate it to softer tones.

"I'll be along soon. I came down to retrieve my book."

"At this hour?"

She laughed. "I'll not be able to sleep for a bit, not after the noise and excitement of the ball. And we've got a bit later of a start tomorrow."

She stopped speaking and examined _his_ countenance, truly looking at the man for perhaps the first time in at least a day. His tie was loosened, a sure sign that he, at least, was preparing to go to bed soon.

He checked the time once again, and she smiled as his fingers curled around the pocketwatch.

"Family heirloom?" she enquired.

His head snapped up in surprise, but there was only kindness written on her face, a genuine interest in her tone. "It is, actually. How did you guess?"

She smiled. "It looks quite a bit older than you," she replied. "Was it your father's?"

Mr. Carson stepped farther into her room then, removing the watch from his waistcoat and holding it out to her; she took it from him gently, as though she were handling something spun of fine glass thread.

"It was. I inherited it when he died," he said, and she realized she'd been too quick to jump to assumptions; his voice _was_ softer now, full of emotion and something she'd later - years later - identify as _love._

He examined her face as she focused her attentions on the watch, and his conversation with Lady Grantham came back to him in small snippets.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Mm?" she hummed, running a finger over the delicate engraving inside the watch: _Ernest P. Carson,_ it read, and she smiled to realize the butler had been named, in part, for his father.

"I asked you before if you were well, and I have a feeling that perhaps your answer wasn't … complete."

She looked up then, her bright blue eyes piercing his darker ones with their intense gaze. He sensed a bit of unease and raised his hand as if to ward it off.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to press you; only I thought …"

"You thought what, Mr. Carson?" She tilted her head again, truly curious, and it discomfited him a bit.

He tugged at his waistcoat and stood a bit taller.

"I wondered if … perhaps … if you might be in need of a friend," he told her.

Her widening eyes told him all he needed to know: Yes, she did. And yes, he'd shocked her.

Perhaps Lady Grantham had been right to push him after all.

"Do have a seat, Mr. Carson," she said quietly, waving a hand to the spot by her side table.

He obliged, and she sat opposite him. She took a moment to gather her thoughts.

"My mother is very ill. She's dying, Mr. Carson, and I've no way to go to her, not at this time of year with the northern snows. The railways are far from safe in the worst of it, and to tell the truth, I don't think I'd make it anyhow, not before … before she …"

His heart shattered, and he cursed himself for ever having thought to pose the question in the first place.

"I see," he said. "And you've no other family to care for her?"

Mrs. Hughes felt the fear and panic begin to bubble up, the knowledge that her sister must be the secret she always hid at the forefront of her mind. If anyone knew …

"No, I haven't. We lost my father two years before I came to Downton."

"That must have been difficult," he said understandingly, and she nodded.

"It was."

She laid her hands on her knees, took a deep breath, and turned to him.

"You know my secret now, Mr. Carson. I trust you'll not share it. Her Ladyship knows about my mother, but she's the only other one. I wouldn't want the staff to think I'm not up to doing my job … wouldn't want them treating me differently. Nor _you,_ for that matter."

"It is safe with me, I can assure you," he replied kindly, and a soft smile graced his features. "What are friends for, if not to share one's burdens now and again?"

Mrs. Hughes's eyes showed a flicker of surprise, perhaps even amusement, and he wondered if he'd overstepped. He was about to apologize when she spoke.

"Don't say you're sorry for that, please, Mr. Carson. We _are_ friends, I suppose, aren't we? I never had that at my last place. It brings me no shame to tell you that I appreciate having found it here."

She rose, the weight on her shoulders lighter now that she'd shared it with him, and she was suddenly quite aware of her own exhaustion. A glance to his face showed her his own, and he stood up as she lit a candle to take with them up to the attic rooms, a light in the pitch black corridor.

They walked side by side upstairs, and he left her at the doorway to the women's corridor.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes."

She smiled. "Good night, Mr. Carson."

She watched as he walked to his room, taking her time locking the door so as to be sure he's securely inside his doorway, a light coming from beneath it, before taking the candle into her own room and shutting herself inside.

For the first time since she had arrived at Downton fifteen months earlier, Elsie Hughes wondered about Joe Burns, about whether or not she'd been right to turn him down all those years ago. Not that she'd ever thought she had been wrong to turn down the _job_ \- she needed the money, after all - but she'd thought at the time that she'd never find a man as decent as Joe to care for once she left him behind.

It appeared she'd been very, _very_ wrong.

* * *

 **I'd love a little review if you're so inclined. x**


End file.
